


Hariel

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Series: Library of W.I.Ps (emphasis on the W not the P) [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dissociation, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 21:28:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: Work in progress, emphasis on the work not the progress





	Hariel

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress, emphasis on the work not the progress

It starts off as little more than a stray thought, a vague formless “what if…”

Harry is in the Gryffindor dorms, lying in his four poster bed, stiller than a corpse and staring unseeingly at the crinkles in the dark canopy fabric above. His heavy drapes are drawn tight, encasing him in his bed like a box, with darkness soothing him at all sides. The rest of the world is muffled tonight, the crackling of sweet wrappers and hush of bare feet on soft rugs, peppered by snorts of laughter.

His name was drawn from the Goblet barely a few hours ago and he’d returned to the dorms only to find stiff silence and averted gazes. Ron was nowhere to be seen and the moment he’d yanked his curtains closed, the chatter had picked up again. It’s impossible to make out what they’re saying, from his place, now, pressed into the mattress by the comforting weight of his duvet, dipping shallowly with his weight, but he knows that they are talking about him.

He wants to rave and spit and  _ scream. _

But he is exhausted.

Exhausted of always being angry, exhausted of always being terrified, exhausted of always trying to be brave.

Not the kind of exhaustion that comes from playing a good game of quidditch, of pushing his limits on his turns and drops and feints – but a dull, deep soul-aching tiredness that makes him want to stop

Stop pretending, stop laughing, and just

\-           _ stop _ .

He wishes he were someone else.

* * *

 

_ “Mischief managed.” _

The black ink dissolves in smoke-like swirls and the Marauders’ map returns to its blank parchment state, taking Hermione and Ron’s dots (next to each other somewhere on the grounds by the lake – he noted) with it. Though he should be happy that his best friends’ friendships hadn’t fallen apart, for just a sliver of a second he wished they felt as miserable and alone as he did.

Perhaps it was more than a sliver.

That wasn’t exactly fair, of course. Hermione was torn between her two best friends and in a tricky situation and Ron still thought he was lying – did he not get that Harry didn’t want whatever  _ ‘fame, riches and glory’ _ the Tournament promised?

Whatever. He was only checking the map because he’d been wanting Hermione to help look over his Transfiguration essay, because there was no way McGonagall was going to let him off, just because his name came out of a flaming cup! It was a good essay, and he’d spent most of the afternoon writing it and with no interruptions of Quidditch or requests to play chess… He’d written a good two foot of parchment in no time at all so there was little chance of Hermione yelling at him for slacking off this time around.

He sighed and tossed his quill to the side, sending a splatter of ink across his thumb.

It was strangely quiet this weekend. He had been working up in the dorms since before lunch and no one had been up at all. Harry rose from the heap of parchment rolls piled on his bed and went down to the common room, descending the stairs two at a time.

It was a warm September afternoon, and a Saturday to boot, so though it was odd, he supposed it wasn’t too surprising that the common room was also empty. Usually, he, Ron and Hermione would sequester themselves in front of the fireplace, or curl up on the plush window seats next to the old and failing Wizarding Wireless.

This time, he found a good spot near the portrait entrance with a deep armchair and a little coffee table, tucked in the corner of the room,. Perhaps, he should have gone to the library and look up some more spells for the Tournament, but each time he imagined beginning, he couldn’t help but break out into a cold sweat. The other Champions had at least two years more knowledge than he did, there was no way, no matter how hard he worked or how much he managed to cram in, he could possibly beat that! He had enough trouble just studying for exams last year, how was he supposed to learn two years worth of spells in just a handful of weeks?

Wouldn’t it just be easier to accept that? And just let whatever would happen, simply happen?

Harry Potter had no ambition. No particular reason to wake up every morning, or study hard for a test, no particular direction in life. He just existed. Living at the Dursley’s, he had just existed too. Waking up, doing chores, going to sleep, repeat. Life was just running through the motions. He liked gardening and cooking because they were the most interesting of his chores, but he had no desire to pursue either as a career. Similarly, he liked DADA because he was good at it, and Quidditch for the same reason, but didn’t particularly care to make either his life’s goal.

Perhaps it was lofty to think of life ambitions and ideas of direction at fourteen.

But even as an ickle firstie, Ron had had some idea, wanting to be prefect, wanting to win the Quidditch Cup…

The only desire Harry Potter had was for his family.

And the only way he could have them was in death.


End file.
